by Sarina Bowen
He fell asleep remembering the taste of Georgia on his lips.
* * *
“Hey. You okay? Can you wake up a sec?”
Leo swam through the stillness of his dreams. He did not want to wake up.
“Earth to Leo. Come in, Leo.”
His eyes opened to find a figure sitting on the side of his giant bed. “Silas?” He sat up in a hurry.
“Sorry to startle you, dude. The doctor asked me to wake you up every three hours. Aren’t you glad you moved in? You get a bedroom, a big rent bill, and a wake-up at two in the morning.”
“Shoulda stayed at the hotel,” Leo mumbled.
Silas laughed. “Let’s make a deal—I’ll tell the doctor I woke you up several times, but instead we’ll both sleep.”
“’Kay. I’m fine, anyway.” Except for the pain in my face.
“I’m sure you are. They take concussions pretty seriously, though. Don’t be shocked if they put you on the injured list a couple of nights just to be sure.”
“Fuck.” He needed to make a contribution to the team, like, yesterday. He couldn’t do that without playing. “Fucking Karl.”
“Dude, you could get Coach in some serious trouble. Shit—you could get that man fired if you go to the commissioner with this.”
Leo cringed, which hurt the muscles in his face. “Sounds like a bad career move.” He didn’t want to be the rookie who got the coach fired. “O’Doul gets hit worse every other game.”
“O’Doul knows those fights are coming. And he’s wearing a helmet.”
Those were good points. But there was still no way he was going to make a big deal out of this. If anything, he was more determined than ever to play for Worthington. That asshole was going to give him scoring chances and learn to be grateful for it.
That was the idea, anyway.
“You want another hit of Advil?” Silas asked.
“Good idea.”
Silas disappeared into the bathroom and returned a minute later. “Heads up.”
Leo raised his hand just in time to catch the bottle sailing toward him.
“Nice. I can text the doctor that your reflexes are top notch.”
Leo popped the top off the bottle and poured out two pills. He capped it again and then dry-swallowed them.
Silas handed him a glass of water, which he drank gratefully. “Thanks, man. Really.”
“No big. Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What’s the coach’s problem with you, anyway?”
Wasn’t that the question. “I think it’s the usual protective father crap. Georgia and I started up pretty young. I mean . . .” Leo chuckled to himself. “That man has no idea.”
“Or maybe he does.”
Leo lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Maybe. We broke all the rules he set. Not just me, either. Georgia was a party girl. Sometimes I’d be tugging on her hand, saying, ‘We have to get you home.’ And she was the one saying, ‘One more dance.’”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I’ve never seen Georgia party.”
“What do you mean? You danced with her yourself tonight.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.
Silas laughed in the dark. “You noticed that, huh?”
“Maybe.”
His roommate laughed again. “I was as surprised as you, man. That girl doesn’t drink, she doesn’t party, and I’ve never seen her dance. I only asked her because we were both standing there, bored. Couldn’t believe she said yes.”
Leo didn’t like the sound of that. “Maybe it’s because she’s always working when you see her out.”
“Maybe.” Silas didn’t exactly sound convinced. “So Coach hates you because you broke curfew? That’d be a hell of a grudge.”
No kidding. “Nah, something changed. He used to like me a lot. We got along great. He was this big college coach and I kind of idolized him. He’d come to our rink sometimes and run workshops for my high school team, and it was because I asked him to do it. When recruiters started showing up to watch me play, that’s when he really supported me. He made a lot of calls to those guys. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made it onto the Harkness team without his help.”
Silas gave a low, appreciative whistle. “That’s pretty awesome. So what the hell happened?”
Leo wasn’t sure what he could say without violating Georgia’s privacy. “Spring of senior year is when it all went to hell. The college deposits were in, and life was good. But then Georgia went away to tennis camp over spring break, and she was the victim of a crime.” That was all he would say on the matter, but even that sounded like too much. Just mentioning it felt like uncorking an old bottle of bad juju. Shit. Perhaps that’s why Coach Karl was coming unglued. Maybe he and Georgia hadn’t had to think about this for a long time. And then Leo showed up and stirred up all the old anguish . . .
That was something to think about when he was less tired.
“A bad crime?” Silas asked.
Leo sighed. “Yeah. And nothing was ever the same. Georgia kind of lost it for a little while, and I did everything I could for her, but it was just a really bad time. That’s when Karl started giving me the evil eye. He’d come home from work and see me sitting there with Georgia, even though we weren’t supposed to be alone together at his house. I knew I wasn’t welcome anymore. But at that point Georgia really needed the company and I just didn’t care what he thought. But it was like he woke up when someone hurt his little girl. And he didn’t trust anyone anymore. Not even me.”
Silas was quiet for a long moment. “That’s a hell of a history, dude. And then you two broke up?”
“She dumped me after all that. She said she wanted to start fresh in college.” Leo relaxed in the bed, his head sinking into the pillow.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch. But Karl has no legitimate beef with me. I was good to Georgia.”
“Except when you were breaking rules and keeping her out late in your lovemobile.”
Leo snorted. “I drove a Ford F-150 with a pimped out stereo. Thought I was a total stud.”
“I drove a battered hearse.”
“What? An actual hearse?”
“Yeah.”
Leo was feeling really sleepy again. “Could you get girls to climb into the back of a hearse with you?”
“You’d be surprised.”
He fell asleep mid chuckle.
TEN
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7TH
22 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
TOP TEAM HEADLINES:
“Brooklyn Bruiser Bruised by Coach? Tuxedos and Trouble at Benefit for Brooklyn Arts”
—Pucker Up Blog
“Do you have your cell phone charger?” Becca prompted.
“Got it.” Georgia zipped her carry-on bag shut. The car she’d hired was waiting downstairs.
“I’m not even going to ask if your gym stuff is in there. I know you wouldn’t forget that. But how about your round brush? This road trip is no time for flat hair.”
Honestly, a burka sounded like a better choice. Georgia would just as soon go into permanent hiding after last night’s fiasco. She was surprised there wasn’t a message on her phone telling her not to bother to show up at the airport this morning. Georgia peeked at her messages one more time. Nothing from the GM. Everything in her inbox was from news sources asking for a statement about last night’s rumored scuffle between a player and the new coach.
It was going to be another long week.
Becca loomed over her in her bathrobe. While Georgia always traveled with the team, her roommate usually stayed behind to man the office. “Do you have condoms?”
Georgia looked up quickly. “God, why?”
“Duh!” Becca grinned. “Don’t you want to see where
that kiss could lead?”
“It led to a punch in the face! God, I don’t even know if his jaw is broken.”
That last bit came out in an anguished squeak, and Becca’s face softened. “He’ll be okay, honey. If it was that bad you would have heard already. You could call him, you know.”
Now there was a terrifying idea. Hi, Leo. That was the only truly good kiss I’ve had in six years. Was there any permanent damage on your end?
Georgia shook her head. “I’m the last person he wants to talk to right now. And unless he’s decided to sue my father and quit the team, somehow we have to travel on the same jet for six straight days.”
“And five straight nights,” Becca said, waggling her eyebrows.
“I love you, but you’re crazy,” Georgia said, checking her bag one more time and then standing up.
Becca threw her arms around her. “I love you, too, Georgia. And I don’t think you say those words very often.”
Surprised at this uncharacteristic emotional moment, Georgia put her arms around Becca and gave her a squeeze. Becca was right, too. She didn’t ask people to dance and she never told anyone she loved them. And damn that Leo Trevi for showing up and making her notice all the ways she’d changed since high school. “You’re going to DVR our shows, right?”
“Of course.” Becca released her.
“And if I need you to return some calls to the press today . . .”
“I’ll do it. Just forward the e-mails and tell me what to say. Now let’s go. Your car is outside.”
Georgia stepped into her shoes—flats, of course—and picked up her carry-on. Becca rolled the big suitcase toward the door. “I’m helping you carry this down the stairs. God, it’s heavy.”
“Six days is a long time.”
“And I want frequent updates.”
After they wrestled the suitcase down the stairs, Georgia handed off the bag to the driver of the black sedan who was waiting at the curb. She climbed onto the leather seat in back and shut the door, waving at Becca one last time.
Just as the driver climbed back into his seat, another black car pulled up behind them. Georgia eyed the ridiculously fancy condo building across the street. Usually the hired cars stopping on this block were here for people who lived in the posh building across the street. And given the timing, it might even be Silas who emerged from the front door.
Sure enough, a doorman with shiny buttons on his uniform stepped out, holding the door. Silas followed, wearing his suit, his purple tie, and rolling a big duffel bag behind him.
We should have shared a car, Georgia thought. What a waste. But then another figure appeared behind Silas—a tall, beautiful man with an enormous purple bruise all over the side of his face.
Leo. Her heart gave a whimper at the sight of his injured face.
Her driver picked that moment to accelerate, and the car slid away from the curb and down Water Street. Georgia actually felt a rush of nausea. She gripped the door’s handle and debated with herself whether she might need to ask the driver to pull over. She fixed her eyes on the horizon and took three slow breaths.
What a tangled mess she was in. And she had no clue how to escape.
One of Brooklyn’s blessings was the quick trip to LaGuardia airport, so Georgia was only allowed half an hour of brooding before the car pulled up to Marine Air Terminal.
“Morning, Georgia,” her father greeted her as she rolled her suitcase into the gate area. “Can I get that for you?”
Georgia gave her head a shake and tried to keep on walking.
But he reached out and grabbed her hand. “What, you’re not talking to me now? I brought you an apple turnover from Reinwald’s.”
“Dad,” she said, forgetting her vow to call him Coach at work, “don’t try to butter me up. My inbox is full of reporters who want to know if Coach Worthington socked one of his players in front of three hundred guests. A pastry isn’t going to make that headache go away.”
He gave her a sheepish face. “I’m sorry about that, Princess. Didn’t mean to make your job more difficult.”
“Then what did you mean to do? I don’t get it. Not at all! What did Leo do that was worth jeopardizing your career, my sanity, and his face?” Georgia felt herself getting all worked up. If Leo stuck around Brooklyn, he and her father were going to have to sort some things out. Whatever issues they had probably involved her. So wouldn’t that be fun.
Her father lifted his chin in that maddening, closed-off way that men had. “That’s not your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” Georgia pressed. “I’m telling you that it is. And I need you to fix it. Tell him you’re sorry.” She pointed at the bakery bag. “In fact, you should give that pastry to Leo and commence groveling.” Then she rolled right past him, taking up position against the wall and arming herself with her phone and a don’t-talk-to-me face. She kept her head down, because it was too tempting to watch for Leo, and to worry about that awful bruise on his face.
This was going to be a long trip, and she could not spend it staring at Leo. There were other things to worry about. Her stomach gave a grumble, which only made Georgia more irritated with her father.
Because now she was also thinking about apple turnovers from Reinwald’s. Only pride kept her from snatching it out of her father’s hand.
* * *
While last night Leo had been That Guy Who Caused Two Scenes at One Benefit, this morning he was That Guy Whose Name Wasn’t on the Flight Manifest. His record for causing difficulty within the organization was approaching epic proportions. For once, at least, it wasn’t his fault. None of the office minions had remembered to add his name to the list. But that didn’t stop the grumbling and the overt checking of watches before his twenty-two teammates and assorted staff were ushered onto the plane without him.
Leo stood there, passport in hand, watching the last of them disappear down the Jetway and tried not to feel that the universe meant it as a sign.
When eventually his status was sorted out, Leo boarded the jet to find that most of the seats were taken. He kept moving down the aisle, and toward the back he spotted a couple of empty seats, one of them beside Georgia Worthington. He’d snuck glances at her in the terminal while she studiously ignored him. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him now, though. He quickened his pace toward the seat.
“Leo Trevi?” He looked up to see Hugh Major calling to him from a narrow doorway at the back of the plane. “Can you come in here a moment, son?”
Foiled again.
Leo continued down the aisle, his eyes on Georgia. And when he passed, she glanced up, her eyes creasing with something like sympathy.
He must look pretty frightening.
Ducking into the little room in back, he found a small but attractively appointed room featuring a table and leather-upholstered built-in seating—like a restaurant booth for rich people. In fact, the jet was a marked upgrade from long hours on a bus with his AHL team. And now he’d been called into the inner sanctum. Coach Karl sat at the table, looking surly.
“Have a seat,” the GM said, taking his own seat beside Coach Karl. “Coffee?”
“Um, yes, please,” Leo said, fitting his big frame into an open seat on the opposite side of the table. It was a bit like being called into the principal’s office. Although if the news were very bad, they wouldn’t have had him on the jet at all.
“How’s the jaw? The doctor look at you yet?” The GM opened a Starbucks bag and pulled out three sealed cups of coffee, passing one to Leo.
“I’ll live,” he said, uncapping the coffee. “Haven’t spoken to the doctor yet, but he won’t find anything other than a real ugly bruise and a scrape. Nothing my cosmetic surgeon can’t fix.”
Nobody laughed. And Coach Karl sat stone still in his chair, wearing an expression like someone had just force-fed him something bitter. Leo sipped his coffee and
was grateful to have it. Maybe it wasn’t worth getting punched in the face, but he’d never underestimate the healing power of French roast.
Hugh cleared his throat. “Son, we need you to know that the club does not support the actions of a coach who lays his hands on his players. Or vice versa, of course. What happened last night shouldn’t have. And it won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Leo said, his gaze leaving the GM and landing on the coach. It was all well and good for Hugh to give that speech. But Leo was pretty sure that a direct apology should be forthcoming right about now.
“Karl?” Hugh prompted.
“I apologize for my rash temper and the unfortunate result,” Karl said woodenly.
Never was such a lackluster apology issued. And even though none of this was funny, Leo found that he had to fight back a bitter laugh. “Thank you.” . . . For that inadequate sentiment.
Coach pushed a white paper bag across the table. “Here,” he said gruffly.
He took the bag. “What’s this?”
“An apple turnover from Reinwald’s.”
“Um . . . thanks?” This morning got weirder by the second. “Is it poisoned?”
Nobody laughed.
“Son,” Hugh began. “We need to know if you plan to pursue any legal action against the coach or the team.”
With that question the conversation moved rapidly into the ass-covering portion of the morning. Careful. Leo’s agent wouldn’t want him to promise anything. “If that’s the last of my difficulties with Coach Worthington, I don’t see why I would pursue anything,” he said.
The manager tilted his head back, studying Leo over the end of his shrewd nose. “All right.” He shuffled a file folder in front of him and drew out a page. “Then would you mind signing this?”
The plane had begun accelerating down the runway for takeoff. Leo took the paper from Hugh and read the first few lines. Regarding the altercation between myself and Karl Worthington on the evening of . . . He skimmed. I will not pursue regulatory nor legal action, nor seek damages . . .